Luck
by Nerikla
Summary: It reminds him of his old customs, of his old ways. Racetrack is right - it must be destroyed. (Rated for heavy language)


"Don't kill it!"

The entire room turns to stare incredulously at the boy who shouted. Swifty, eyes wide with horror, holds up both of his hands, pleading with the only kid in the room who didn't bother to turn around. "Please, Race, c'mon...it's bad luck to kill it..."

"Bad luck? Real funny, Swift," Racetrack mutters, his dark eyes fixed on the cricket. He creeps closer, closer, one of his shoes clutched in his hand.

The cricket, such a dark green that it would appear black to a casual glance, is frozen, every so often one of his antennae twitching despondently. Racetrack is scowling. He hates this cricket. This cricket keeps him awake at night, chirping and making noises that would be enough to drive anyone mad. And now...and now this!

"Please, Race! Ya don't understand!" Swifty cries, following the Italian boy, his eyes wide.

"Y'know what I do understand, Swifty? I _understand _that I'm goin' to get one fuckin' good night of sleep tonight. Do y'know how _long_ it's been since I've slept well? This bug, this fuckin', ugly bug, has kept me awake every night for the past _month!_" Racetrack punctuates his snarling by jabbing downward with the shoe, aiming for the cricket. The bug simply hops away, jumping so high that it almost seems to be defying gravity. Temper hotter than before, Racetrack growls profanities beneath his breath as he holds the shoe tighter, following silently now.

Dutchy watches the chase uneasily, trying to avoid pleading looks Swifty is shooting him. True, the cricket has been a nuisance for the past month, but if it matters so much to his friend...well...

"Can't ya just take it outside or somethin'?" The blonde boy suggests with a hint of annoyance in his voice. It's late. He just wants to go to sleep and cover his head with his pillow to block out the sound of the chirping cricket.

"It'll come _back,_ Dutchy! It'll keep fuckin' comin' back! We'll just have to kill it now, to make sure that it doesn't!" Racetrack laughs madly, his eyes glinting in the moonlight that escapes through a cracked window.

"It's bad luck to kill it, Race! An' it has feelings, just the same as you!" Swifty begs. Though his parents are dead, he still remembers and treasures certain values that they impressed upon him. A cricket, in his mind, is sacred. It is a vehicle of God.

No one can pass judgement that will make Racetrack listen. He stalks his prey the way a lion does, quietly, a slight smile twitching on his lips. Closer, he moves. Closer...

No one, that is, except for Jack. The boy has been washing his hands quietly, and when he comes back in the room, Dutchy allows himself a relieved sigh. Jack will know what to do.

Jack has heard the whole thing, and watches Racetrack momentarily. He gives Swifty a look of disdain - he has never liked the Asian boy. His head is too full of beliefs and romantic notions for Jack to ever think of him as a hardened man. Tough men are the only ones who command Jack's respect. That is one reason that he gets along with the Brooklyn boys so well. He wishes he could be as hardened as Spot Conlon.

"Racetrack," The tall boy says softly, a hint of a sigh in the word. His Italian friend tenses, frozen, not wanting to turn around. "Leave it."

"But Jack -" Racetrack turns to argue, anger hot in his eyes.

"No buts, Race." Jack frowns, "Swifty. Grab the stupid cricket and take it outside." It is odd to hear their leader sound so weary. 

"A cricket is good lu - " Swifty begins to protest, but once he sees the steel in his leader's expression, he frowns and softly moves toward the cricket. One of his hands darts out, the fingers outspread and then caged, trapping the cricket without doing it harm. It tries to jump to escape, and Swifty easily holds it, using both hands to cup around the insect, which has begun to make an odd clicking noise. He moves slowly, as in a daze, drifting towards the stairs and then down them.

As he holds the cricket, he can almost see his mother's face. He can still hear the sounds of merchants calling to him, of bells jingling and hear the swish brightly patterned clothing. The only resemblance he bears of his parents are his slanted eyes. His hair is a reddish-black, gleaming tinted crimson in the sunlight.

He sets down the clicking insect, looking at it in dismay. It really is ugly, now that he can see it. So hideous. It reminds him of what he has lost, what he has left behind, what he can never regain.

He pulls up one of his feet and smashes it downward.

"I hate you," He whispers, his voice oddly choked. He stomps downward again and again. "I hate you."

Later he clamors up the stairs, his face dark. Only Dutchy notices the oddly bright eyes of his friend, but he says nothing.

"I killed it," Swifty mutters to Racetrack, his expression terrible.

Racetrack claps him on the back.

"Just a stupid bug," The Italian boy snickers, pleased.

Swifty does not reply.

Jack covers his head with his pillow, ignoring the chirping of his boys. He fights for sleep, longing for the dreams that wash over him. His dreams are his only escape.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Author's Note: I thank the crickets in my basement for inspiring this story. I need to buy cricket repellant. 


End file.
